There is one thing I don't like about holidays in general and Christmas holidays in particular: they are not over yet that you can feel them dying. It is like a prolonged Sunday, which means you can feel the blues growing inside you every minute. If you think about it, Christmas is a bit like a doughnut: you got the days leading to Christmas and Christmas itself, then the hole of a quieter moment (in which I am now), then New Year. Inbetween, your time is sometimes filled by visiting friends and families through dinners and parties. When you don't have this, and even if you do, you have those moments when you feel the season to be jolly slipping through your fingers. No matter how often you get the electric train running, you always end up with that feeling of fatality, that melancholia.
This is why, I think, I prefer the time leading to Christmas to the day itself, and I was never that crazy about the New Year. New Year was always happening too late in the season, so to speak. I say that, and getting back to work always arrives too soon. When I was a child, the holidays lasted until Epiphany, which gave us a real, complete holidays (I blogged about it before), long enough to accept gradually its coming end.